


Akin to Love

by eldritcher



Series: The Journal of Fingolfin [16]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 02:38:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4002727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eldritcher/pseuds/eldritcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eonwe wants to build a house. He employs Nerdanel to be his architect. She makes time for that, though she's full-time angsting and suicidal after Feanor took their sons on that stupid mission.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Akin to Love

In the midst of loss and turmoil, a woman of the Noldor finds love and courage. Nerdanel joins league with a distraught Finarfin to plead the cause of their house before Manwë. Eönwë’s grudging admiration for this brave woman becomes something deeper as he watches her grow in wisdom and compassion. At a time when Eönwë has started to silently question the reasoning behind several of Manwë’s judgments Nerdanel turns into the one constant in his life.

* * *

She sighed as the insistent knocking on her chamber door began anew. How many times had she told her father that she did not welcome interruptions while she was engrossed in her work? She put aside her hammer and carefully draped a cloth over her unfinished sculpture.

“Mother?”

The tentative question made her smile. She wiped her hands on her apron before going to the door and opening it.

“Come in.” 

She stepped aside to let her first-born son in. As he entered, her maternal protectiveness surged forth and she found herself scanning his lithe, slender form for injuries hidden or otherwise. His clothes were rumpled by the hard ride he must have had from Tirion. And his hair…she sighed as her fingers moved of their own accord to pat down the unruly hair into some semblance of neatness.

“It is cool in here. Oh, mother, it was frightfully hot on the road. They really should listen to me and plant trees on the wayside. I believe they argue just because they consider it their duty to argue against anything I say.” 

He promptly pushed her down onto the only stool in the chamber and then knelt before her. His head buried itself in her lap contentedly. She smiled at his rare display of vulnerability and brought her fingers to the task of grooming his hair.

“How is Atarinkë faring?” she asked. 

He raised his head and she laughed as his grey eyes sparkled mischievously. “His nerves are all in shreds,” he admitted. “The child tears the walls down with its cries. Macalaure and Artanis have vowed never to beget children after seeing this. Turkáno fares worse than Atarinkë. He was mortified when he fell asleep in court. It seems that he is exhausted by watching over his young daughter.”

“Your laughter at the young fathers’ expense will soon be reversed. My father and Lord Finwë recently met to discuss an alliance between Lord Ingwë’s granddaughter and you.” She could not help laughing at the picture of complete horror that he made.

“Tell me that it is not true!” he begged his mother.

“Do you have a secret paramour then?” she teased him.

“Mother, if I had one you would be the first to know,” he laughed as he pressed an affectionate kiss to her fingers. 

“I will hold you to that.” Mirth had vanished from her features and now she was the stern mother once again. “I will not have lies and secrets from any of my sons. Whatever sordid activity you embark upon, I expect that you shall tell me.”

“You know I will.” 

His earnest grey eyes disarmed her as usual. Fëanor and she had been deeply in love when Maedhros had been conceived. Perhaps her peace and happiness of the time had resulted in her son’s even temperament and restrained passions. 

“What brings you here now? It is an unexpected visit though you shall not hear me complaining.” 

He frowned as he gauged words carefully in his mind. After a moment of deep thought, he began cautiously, “Father is learning how to capture light.”

“It is the greatest height that every craftsman hopes to achieve. Fëanáro has nursed the ambition for a very long time. Who teaches him? Aule?”

He shook his head before replying in a soft voice, “Melkor.”

Her fingers stiffened and she stopped grooming her son’s hair. Fear rose in her like the high tide at Alqualondë. 

“He will not be persuaded, mother.” Maedhros’s voice was weary and apprehensive. “I fear for him.”

“Why?” she asked quietly.

“He has changed. I think he has changed. Little things; he no longer delights in carrying his grandson about, he no longer joins the family for meals…he is engrossed in his work.”

“That is not new for him.” She tried to make her voice light and unconcerned. But her son winced at the bitterness that escaped her. 

“He loves you, mother. It is that his pride keeps him away from your doorstep.”

“Another loves him. I have my pride. I will not be content to share what I once owned,” she said calmly. 

She had cried and lamented her separation from Fëanor. Then she had stopped crying. She had thought deeply before making her decision. If she could not have him entirely, she did not want him at all. Their children were all grown and quite capable of living without parental guidance. Indeed, Curufin had married and sired a son. She had lived for her children and for Fëanor till then. Now she would live for herself.

But she had to admit that she was deeply worried about Fëanor’s alliance with Melkor. Whatever his virtues, Fëanor simply lacked caution. He would be very easy to manipulate.

×××

 

“Ah!” Eönwë bowed pleasantly as they passed each other on the road. “Why does the wife of Fëanáro walk when she should ride?”

Nerdanel tried to prevent her glare. But the expression of disbelief on Eönwë’s features told her that she had failed miserably. 

“Did I offend you?” He leapt off from his horse and bowed again to her.

“I am Mahtan’s daughter,” she said quietly. 

He would not understand. People never understood the difference. She had not run away from Fëanor because of marital disagreements. She had severed their union because she wanted him completely, which would never happen. 

Eönwë frowned in bewilderment. She waited for his inane comment that she knew was sure to follow. 

But he surprised her by saying, “May I offer you my horse, Lady?”

She stared at him baffled by his unexpected courteousness. He was Maiar, the herald of Manwë. She did not think that it was a commonplace event to offer rides to women who were living parted from their husbands.

“I insist.” He extended his hand with a sincere smile. She nodded politely and let him help her mount. 

He gently coaxed the horse into a steady pace as he walked beside them.

“I would be guilty of keeping you from whatever errand lies at the end of your road,” she said quietly.

“I would be guilty if I were to pass you by without offering you the convenience of a ride,” he rejoined easily.

She did not reply. The ride was not unwelcome for it was very hot and walking in such weather was not pleasant, particularly when one was alone. But it was unexpected. What would have made Eönwë offer? Long years of studying under Aule had taught her to be wary of such unanticipated gestures.

“I assure you,” Eönwë laughed, “it is merely a ride. My errand has nothing to do with you.”

“Or with my sons?” she asked cautiously.

“No, not at all!” he winked at her merrily.

“Or Fëanáro?” she frowned.

He shook his head sincerely. “I would not agree to be errand-bearer to Fëanáro, Milady. It would be most unwise. His enthusiasm for his work leaves me unsettled and my adherence to formality is not to his liking.”

“He is anything but formal,” Nerdanel said smiling. How many times had Fëanor shocked guests when he would wander into the mansion, greased with soot and clad in nothing but leather breeches that had seen better days?

Eönwë wrinkled his nose as if reliving such an experience. Nerdanel noticed that he seemed younger when he did that. Oddly enough, she had never before thought of a Maiar in terms of age. She had merely considered them a part of the coterie that surrounded Manwë.

“Why are you concerned about Fëanáro when you admit that you no longer are united?” he asked curiously. 

She gauged his features. There was no malice or hidden motives ensconced in the question, she decided. It seemed merely a desire to know. Maybe she could tell him. She had to rehearse the answer well enough before she could tell Fëanor which had to happen soon.

“Have you ever felt that you could not be enough to withstand the force of your partner’s love?” she asked thoughtfully as she shaped her reasons into words.

“I would not know,” he said quietly. “I admit that I envy those who do. I have never been loved in that manner. Nor have I loved thus.”

“You were lucky.” She smiled kindly seeing the doubt in his eyes. “It is a difficult endeavour, this thing called love. To persuade myself that I was enough for him even while knowing that I was not, that was the hardest lie I have lived. I left him because I could no longer lie to myself.”

“But if you love him, that is worth everything!” he said aghast. 

They had stopped walking. The horse lazily chewed a blade of grass as its master continued debate with Nerdanel. 

“He loved me deeply. But to see him trying to content himself with our life when his instincts were driving him in another direction, I could not have done that. I once vowed that I would never be false in love. I had to leave.”

“Possessiveness,” he said slowly, “is the sign of deep love. Leaving him because of that may not be the wisest option.”

“You confuse a well thought-out decision with passion driven possessiveness. I forgive you for you haven’t been caught in the grip of love.” She smiled and gently nudged the horse into a slow walk.

He nodded uncertainly saying, “You are right. I will tell you if I ever experience this unfathomable emotion.”

“I will hold you to that, milord,” she laughed at the earnestness on his features. 

He winked at her and said, “Methinks Fëanáro would be losing more. It is not everyday that one is fortunate enough to meet a woman of wisdom and beauty.”

“You would be the first to call me beautiful,” she laughed again, now clearly amused by his baffled discomfiture.

“I am sure that you do not speak the truth!” he exclaimed.

“Are you insulting me? I believe you called me a liar just now,” she raised her eyebrows severely.

“No!” he hastily apologized. “I merely meant to say that I find it hard to believe that you are not called beautiful. I have lived amongst the Vanyar. Their women are beautiful. But you surpass their beauty, if I may say so. Isn’t that why Fëanáro chose to wed you?”

“Fëanáro wed me for my mind and for that I am glad. I would have turned him down had it been for my beauty,” she replied disdainfully.

His eyes widened and he remarked without thinking, “But I have thought that-”

“That the Noldor wed women for their beauty and lineage? Perhaps. It was not so for Fëanáro and I. Ours was a union of minds and of hearts.”

“Progressive,” he said disbelievingly.

She laughed at his bewilderment. They had reached her father’s house. Before he could add anything more, she dismounted and came to stand before him.

“Thank you,” she said solemnly, though her brown eyes twinkled in amusement.

“For the ride? I would have done the same for any woman walking alone in this weather.”

“For the company,” she corrected quietly.

“I thank you then. I have not enjoyed such spirited conversation with anyone for a long time,” he smiled and knelt before her on a single knee.

As he attempted to take her hand, she laughed and swooped down to press her lips chastely on his cheek. 

“Living with Fëanáro spoils one’s conventional standards, Lord Eönwë!” she called out as she entered her father’s mansion leaving a thoroughly befuddled Eönwë kneeling on the dusty road.

He could do little else but shake his head ruefully and brush off the dirt from the knees of his breeches. A rare smile lingered on his features as he mounted his horse and gently nudged it into a canter. 

×××

Eönwë had to admit that he was seriously concerned about the developments in Tirion. That Manwë did not find it worthy of intervention worried him. Varda seemed to be equally unconcerned though Eönwë had once overheard her speaking urgently to Melkor imploring the latter to reconsider his tutoring of Fëanor.

He had nobody to confide his doubts in. Valinor was a political playground. Experience had taught Eönwë that allies were not always friends. He would need to understand what had exactly caused this exile. 

He rode out of the noisy city to clear his thoughts. The open countryside always served as the best canvas for his ponderings. In the light of Laurelin, the fields formed gently swaying golden carpets on either side of the dusty, unpaved road. He dismounted and patted his horse away. He would walk in the fields awhile, he decided. There were only a few novelties that remained in Valinor to someone like him. Perhaps breaking away from his conventional life would help his thoughts.

Conventionalities…he smiled wryly, that conversation with Mahtan’s daughter had certainly wrought an effect on his solidly grounded conventionalities. Had Fëanor married her for her unconventional nature or had the marriage turned her into what she was? The next time he rode into Tirion, he would ask one of those gossipy nobles about the truth. He was admittedly fascinated by the woman’s views on many a subject. He did not agree with any of her opinions, but that did not kill his fascination. It had been a very long time since he had been even mildly curious about anything.

“Lord Eönwë!” A female voice called out in greeting.

His aimless perambulation had carried him away from the road to a merry stream that flowed through the fields. He turned towards the voice to find Nerdanel seated on a boulder by the stream, her fingers wielding what seemed to be a hunter’s knife. 

Surprised by the weapon, he walked towards her. A thin, long piece of fine wood lay on her lap. He might have called it a cane but for the slim tapering cone it formed on one side. Her brows were frowning as she regarded his approach. He wondered why, until he realized that he was staring at her without having uttered even a word of greeting.

“I was merely preoccupied, milady,” he apologized. “A wonderful hideout from everyday life, I must say.” 

He waved his hand at the surround, feeling absurdly self-conscious of himself. He was standing while she still sat on the boulder with her legs conveniently tucked underneath her. Court manners decreed that she should stand and bow to him. Something told him that she would not.

“I am working.” She raised the knife in explanation. “I don’t have hideouts from everyday life.”

“Milady,” Eönwë felt himself at a complete loss of words. This woman had a knack of throwing him off his ease. Perhaps the continual exposure to Fëanor must have damaged her propriety and manners. 

“What are you doing?” he settled for a harmless question.

She raised her eyebrows and said simply, “Working.”

“I see.”

She laughed, her brown eyes lighting up with golden flecks as they faithfully reflected the light of Laurelin. Eönwë wondered why she had never been called beautiful. Then he wondered why she was laughing. 

“Do sit down!” she exclaimed finally. “It is horribly impolite of me to not offer you a seat. You must be tired of standing and looking down at me.”

“Seat?” he asked bewilderedly as he glanced about. 

Walking in the fields was something he was already starting to despise. The grass blades had a way of scratching his soft leather breeches and boots. He did not imagine that he would like sitting on boulders any better…though she seemed to be quite at ease with it. 

“This will not do,” she proclaimed. 

Eönwë had barely opened his mouth to ask what would not do when firm hands dragged him down. He fell on his backside unceremoniously and stared at her in incredulous bafflement. She rose from the boulder and seated herself on the grass before him. Brown eyes regarded him in amusement as he sought for words to express his indignation.

“I am making a flute for my son.” She waved the tapered stick. “I prefer to come to the countryside for such endeavours. Musical instruments must be carefully crafted. Harmonics and wind movement are primary considerations.” 

“You seem to know a lot about musical instruments. Do you play any?” he sought to bring the conversation to a plane he understood.

“Not one! But my son does,” she shrugged as if that would explain everything.

“I know Macalaurë Fëanorion does,” Eönwë said. “But how can you make an instrument when you don’t know how to play?”

“All it requires is learning and application. Some basic notes, the wind playing through the strings or the holes…” 

She began carefully notching a circle on the fine wood. He watched fascinated as she deepened the circle with swift, deft strokes. Each cut was made with the precision that accompanies experience and pure dedication to the craft. Unconsciously, he settled back into an easier position and watched her work. This was unlike anything he had seen. He stared in awe as the slim piece of wood turned into a roughly hewn flute. 

“Would you care to play a note on it?” she offered it to him.

“I…” His refusal became a nod of agreement as she pressed the flute into his hands. He blew through it and his eyes widened as a sibilant note rung in the air. 

“Magnificent!” he said reverentially as he handed it back to her.

“So you think,” she smiled. “I am sure that my finicky son would spot out more than one flaw in this within a moment of inspection.”

“I am starting to believe that the Noldor, as a rule, fail to appreciate what is beautiful and worthy of admiration!” he remarked as he pressed his palms into the earth and leant back, letting the wind play on his face. Sitting on the grass was uncomfortable, but satisfying. 

“I believe that we have very high standards,” she said equably as she continued to smooth out the holes with a smaller knife. 

“I do not mean to pry, but is there an occasion in the near future when you would present the flute to your son?” he asked after long moments of companionable silence.

She paused in her task before replying, “It is not something I should be telling strangers.”

“I am sorry that I pried where I was unwelcome.” He straightened and met her wary gaze sincerely. “I was merely curious.”

She smiled graciously before bending her head to the task again. After a moment, she asked quietly, “Is it another errand that brings you to this countryside, milord?”

“I should not be telling strangers,” he replied evenly. 

Their eyes met for a moment before she laughed, her voice bubbling like the stream that flowed lazily past them. He found himself wondering once again why she had never been called beautiful. 

“My eldest son is set to be named the Crown Prince after the King returns from the exile in Formenos,” she explained. “Macalaurë wished to have a flute wrought by me to render a song he has composed especially for the occasion.”

“The Crown Prince?” Eönwë straightened from his lassitude in alarm. “Is the King abdicating in favour of Fëanáro?” 

He hoped that would not happen. Fëanor as a Crown Prince was difficult enough. As a King, he might be intolerable. He would rule the kingdom from a forge, Eönwë thought with a shudder. 

“Fëanáro is giving up his status in our son’s favour,” Nerdanel said cautiously. “He wishes to live in Formenos with his students and workers. He does not want to return to Tirion. This is strictly private, Lord Eönwë, and I would thank you if you did not relay it to all the gossip posts from Taniquetil to Alqualondë .” 

Eönwë was affronted by her stern injunction. How dare she presume that he was of poor discretion?

“Concerns of Fëanáro are no concerns of mine,” he said frostily. 

She smiled and let the matter drop. He knew he should not have spoken that lie of omission. Concerns of Fëanor were really not his concerns. But Fëanor himself was a concern. That is, what was currently transpiring in Fëanor’s forge between the master-smith and Melkor had been worrying enough to drive Eönwë out into the countryside for distraction and quiet. 

“Melkor seems reformed,” he began cautiously.

“Aulë has taught me many things. But one of his lessons remains etched in my mind.” Her gaze seemed deeper and wiser as she regarded him.

“What would that be?” he asked curiously.

“What is broken cannot be perfectly remade.” She brought the flute to her lips and played a wistful note. “Melkor was once tainted. I cannot believe that the taint is purged entirely from his core.”

Eönwë frowned as he considered the implications of her words. If Melkor was not aiding the brilliant prince for art’s own sake, then what would be the prize in it for him? The art itself! Eönwë gasped in rising horror as he realized the elaborate deception.

“Fëanáro is trapped, I fear.” There was a wealth of sadness and anger in her quiet voice as her gaze dropped to the elegantly wrought ring on her finger. “He has poured himself into the jewels. I can only wonder what the conspiracy has in store for him.”

“He is brilliant,” Eönwë said trying to convince himself as well as her, “and I believe that he can be persuaded to destroy the jewels before harm is wrought.”

She fixed him with a cold glare before saying scornfully, “No true artist would place his life above his art.”

He nodded his head in acceptance of her statement. She was right. He rose to his feet. He would ride to Taniquetil and seek the counsel of Manwë. Perhaps they could bring the jewels to a safer place. 

“It is the time of the feast. Why does your errand take you away at this time?” Nerdanel asked curiously as she accepted his hand to rise.

Telperion shone its silvery rays that mingled with the golden radiance of Laurelin. Eönwë watched the sight in contentment. This was one thing that he had never tired of seeing. 

“I have always--”his words were cut off as darkness fell upon them. 

The last dimming of the lights had been when Míriel Serindë had passed into the keep of Mandos. But this dark was different. He flinched when a shaking hand clutched his shoulder for reassurance.

“Death,” he whispered. 

His voice refused to be louder. She did not reply. But the hand closed around his shoulder shivered more. He clumsily brought his hand to draw the shaking limb into its warmth. With a shudder , her form collapsed against his chest. 

He understood what was terrible about this darkness. The light had failed; but the darkness that followed was more than loss of light. Until then, he had known darkness as merely a lack of light. But now it seemed powerful, with a being of its own. It was powerful enough to enter their thoughts and mind, to make them cower as it stirred and brought forth their deepest fears to the surface.

“Who?” she whispered fearfully. 

He looked down and was awarded a faint glimmer of the unshed tears that clung to her eyelashes. He gulped. There was still light then, even in this all-consuming darkness. 

A powerful voice arose from the north, “And I name him Morgoth, Black foe of the world! I curse Manwë and I curse my summons to this feast when I would have better served my slain father in Formenos!”

“Fëanáro!” Nerdanel gasped as she pulled back from him. Eönwë tightened his grip on her shoulders and held her. He needed to hold on to something solid and tangible in this darkness that was upturning their lives.

Fëanor’s words rang in his ears…

“…my slain father in Formenos!” he had said. Finwë had been slain. Eönwë shuddered.

“I let you use me for your own ends.” Fëanor’s proud voice continued in fiery wrath. “I hoped that my willing slavery would satisfy you and your brother. It did not; you have killed my father, the noblest elf that ever lived! And you have taken the Silmarils which you had no right to touch let alone claim!”

“You know not what you rave,” Manwë thundered and a cold wind blew through the plains, making Nerdanel and Eönwë shiver. “But I will forgive your words for you are grieving your father’s death.”

“Why, O people of the Noldor! Why should we longer serve the jealous Valar, who cannot keep us nor even their own realm secure from their Enemy? Vengeance calls me, but otherwise I would not dwell longer in the same land with the kin of my father's slayer and of the thief of my treasure. Yet I am not the only valiant in this valiant people. And have you not all lost your King? And what else have you not lost, cooped here in a narrow land between the mountains and the sea?”

Something in the powerful words he spoke stirred Eönwë’s deepest emotions. Resentment for the platonic life in Valinor rose in him. What had they achieved in this idyllic land? Fëanor was right. They had been dithering cowards for a long time. They had done nothing but sing praises to the Valar and compose more praises to sing. Rebellion burned in Eönwë’s veins. 

“Here once was light, that the Valar begrudged to Middle-earth, but now dark levels all. Shall we mourn here deedless for ever, a shadow-folk, mist-haunting, dropping vain tears in the thankless sea? Or shall we return to our home? In Cuiviénen sweet ran the waters under unclouded stars, and wide lands lay about, where a free people might walk. There they lie still and await us who in our folly forsook them. Come away! Let the cowards keep this city!”

“Fair shall the end be,” he cried, “though long and hard shall be the road! Say farewell to bondage! But say farewell also to ease! Say farewell to the weak! Say farewell to your treasures! More still shall we make. Journey light: but bring with you your swords! For we will go further than Oromë, endure longer than Tulkas: we will never turn back from pursuit. After Morgoth to the ends of the Earth! War shall he have and hatred undying. But when we have conquered and have regained the Silmarils, then we and we alone shall be lords of the unsullied Light, and masters of the bliss and beauty of Arda. No other race shall oust us!”

×××

 

They remained still, the darkness still enveloping them. 

“I must see Fëanáro!” she pulled away and wrung her hands in fear. He knew she was wringing her hands because one of the limbs struck him squarely in the chest. 

Then the stars of Varda shone above them. Light, he breathed in relief. He had never realized how much they had taken it for granted. 

Nerdanel was whistling sharply. No mount appeared. Clearly the darkness and all that ensued had scared their horses away. 

“I must see Fëanáro,” she said more forcefully. As if drawn by the potent tone in which she spoke those words, his stallion cantered towards them. 

×××

 

They reached Alqualondë after the slaughter. He watched helplessly as she ran from person to person asking desperately about the whereabouts of her husband. All around them, corpses lay pooled in blood. He had never seen such a sight in his life. The carnage was over and the victorious Noldor stood dazed on the docks waiting for directions from Fëanor. 

He glimpsed the instantly recognizable unruly hair of Maedhros Fëanorion amidst the settling fray. He ran over to Nerdanel and grabbed her arm. She turned to face him with desperation twisting her features.

“Lord Nelyafinwë,” he pointed his hand at her son. 

She sighed in relief before running to him uncaring of the puddles of blood that tainted her feet. Eönwë ran after her, trying to evade the blood. 

“Mother!” Maedhros gasped as he recognized her. In the dim light of the many torches, he looked haunted and dazed by what had happened. He smelled of blood, vomit, poor ale and sweat. Eönwë crinkled his nose in disgust at the stench. 

“Russandol!” She threw herself into his arms and broke down completely. Eönwë stood by uncomfortable and still unwilling to leave her. 

“We must leave, brother.” Maglor’s golden voice was firm and serene. Eönwë wondered how he could be so composed in the face of this massacre.

“It is mother,” Maedhros whispered as he half-turned his head in the embrace, never letting his grip on Nerdanel lessen. “Where is father?”

“Aboard the ships already,” Maglor said quietly as he came forward to place his hand on his mother’s cheek. “Nolofinwë has asked us to join him, Russandol. We need to act fast.”

“Don’t leave!” Nerdanel whispered hoarsely. “I will beg Manwë for forgiveness. I will do anything. I cannot lose my sons, Russandol!”

Maedhros flinched before saying softly, “I fear that cannot be easily undone. Father made us swear an oath to recover the jewels and avenge grandfather.”

“Manwë can grant absolution from this oath!” Nerdanel cried. “What can elves do against Melkor? Is Fëanáro mad?”

“I believe he is,” Maglor said sadly as he bent to press a kiss to his mother’s forehead. “You cannot come, mother. I will not allow you to.”

“I cannot lose my sons!” she cried again in anguish. It tore Eönwë’s heart out to hear the naked fear in her voice as she begged them to return.

Maedhros looked up and saw Eönwë. He swallowed before gently prying his mother’s hands away from him and leading her to Eönwë.

“Take her to safety, Lord Eönwë, I beg of you,” he whispered brokenly, his grey eyes clouded with regret and fear.

Maglor was staring into Eönwë’s eyes as if seeking something there. Eönwë felt unsettled by the steady gaze and he hastily averted his eyes. Nerdanel was now sobbing silently as she watched her sons move away from her, their shoulders hunched and their gait forced.

Eönwë gripped her shoulder in a futile attempt at reassurance as they watched the exodus of the Noldor.

×××

To be continued.

 

Canon: The Silmarillion.

References in The Song of Sunset:  
The Journal of Fingolfin – The Exodus of The Noldor, Nerdanel and Fëanor.  
The Truth Behind The Stars – Melkor and Varda.  
Innocence – Nerdanel’s separation from Fëanor.

* * *

The stench of decaying corpses assailed her senses. Alqualondë was rotting. Putrefying bodies lay piled up before her reminding her of the large beached fishes she had seen while travelling in these lands with Fëanor. 

“Nerdanel.” A soft voice recalled her away from her memories. 

She turned to face a beautiful woman clad in mourning black. 

“Indis,” Nerdanel said quietly, “I had expected you would assume charge in Tirion.”

The soft, golden beauty of Indis, did nothing to hide the pallor of grief that cloaked her. The blue eyes were rimmed with dark circles of sleeplessness and horror. Tensed red capillaries dulled the famed sparkle of her gaze.

“I could not,” she said plainly. “I have nothing left among the Noldor.”

“I will plead before Manwë.” Nerdanel’s voice was steely in conviction. “My sons shall not be exiled in hinterland!”

“I spoke to King Ingwë,” Indis said quietly. “He feels that Manwë shall not be sympathetic to this plea.”

“He will not deny a woman who bore seven sons but to lose them all to their father’s madness,” Nerdanel said determinedly.

Her companion did not reply as she raised the mourning veil to cover her facial features. Vultures circled the corpses. 

“What will you do?” Nerdanel knew well that Indis had not come to exchange pleasantries. 

“I…” Indis moved closer to Nerdanel. “I have nothing left.” 

Nerdanel stepped back in shock as she understood what Indis’s confession portended. She began to speak, “I have lost everything too! But to--”

“No.” Indis shook her head. “I lost my husband.”

“So did I!” Nerdanel shouted as she waved a hand at the sea.

“You gave him up.”

“You have never had Finwë’s heart!” Nerdanel said angrily. That she had given Fëanor up…it was true, but it pained her to hear it spoken aloud. A moment later, she regretted her harsh choice of words and began to apologize, “I did not mean-”

“I know. He loved the Broidress. But I loved him,” Indis finished simply. “Life, to me, is nothing without Finwë in it.”

Nerdanel suppressed the urge to think of the countless times when she had felt the same about Fëanor. Perhaps it still held true. Life was nothing to her without her sons and Fëanor. 

“The stench overwhelms me. My carriage waits. Will you come with me to Tirion?” Indis asked after long moments of silence.

“No,” Nerdanel shook her head, “I will attend King Olwë’s funeral and pay my respects to the dead.”

“You shall not be welcome in the midst of the Teleri. Their losses are fresh and their rage is unquenched.”

“I want my sons back. I will beg the Teleri to understand a mother’s plight. There are mothers among them too. Their forgiveness will help me in my plea to Manwë. I will stop at nothing until I get my family back.”

×××

 

Nerdanel remained on the harbour. Telerin elves were gathering the corpses and bringing them to the hastily built community cremation platforms on the shore. There was a scarcity of deadwood. So the corpses were placed in a triangular pile on the platform before surrounding the pile with logs. The Teleri gathered paid no attention to Nerdanel for which she was deeply grateful. If they had resorted to violence, she knew that she would have received no quarter. 

Telerin captains sounded their bugles in a mark of honour to their fallen King. Nerdanel remained a bystander as the funeral bier was slowly carried past the crowd by the nobles of Olwë’s court. The women arrived after the bier was placed on an erected dais. Their lamentations rent the air with the grief and outrage of the entire clan. Tears fell down Nerdanel’s cheeks as she joined them in the elegy. Her proud, clear voice rose above theirs as the song progressed. 

Maglor had inherited his musical acumen from her. Her interests had lain in the crafts and the smithy. She had never trained her voice as he did. But the raw power of her voice burst forth as she pleaded. 

Whispers rose into cries of anger. The crowd turned restive as she sung, her head bowed in grief and her fingers clasped in prayer. 

“Cease!”

She did not. Her voice rose in determination. She closed her eyes and poured her anguish into the song; the turmoil of emotions, of love, of repentance, of regret and of loss.

Hands dragged her into the midst of the grieving, wrathful Teleri. 

“Your sons and husband killed our King!” a woman shouted even as a sharp blow struck Nerdanel’s head from behind. 

She staggered, but her song continued. 

“They killed our children!” an old Teleri mariner croaked, his eyes shining in fury. 

She was barely aware of her hair being pulled by angry hands. Brokenhearted women were lamenting the slain. 

“She gave life to murderers!”

Nerdanel’s voice broke and her song faltered. Murderers, they had called her sons murderers. She broke down into tears as she fell on her knees before the mob. 

“Any justice you seek fit to mete out, you may.” She clasped her hands together in penance and bowed her head in surrender. “But I beg you, don’t curse my sons! They had no choice!”

“How dare you ask our clemency when the blood of our kin has not yet dried on the docks?” The old mariner croaked again. “Proud Noldo, not everything you do can be repaired!”

“Stone her! She is from the family of murderers!”

Nerdanel begged them again, “Please, my sons had no choice…” 

Clogs struck her. Blood; she had not thought about it when she had rushed to her sons’ side in the mêlée. Now amidst a ruthless, grieving mob she understood the pain of shedding blood. She had lost blood. But the reasons had always been causes of joy. Blood had initiated her passage into womanhood. Blood had proclaimed her fertility. Blood had heralded life when she had given birth to her sons. 

Blood had never been a cause of sorrow till this day. She bit down on her lips to quell a scream of pain as the hard wooden footwear pelted her. Her teeth drew blood. The metallic tang of it made her flinch. Her sons had caused bloodshed and pain. But what caused her true anguish was that their blood must have been spilt in the fray. 

“HOLD!” 

A powerful shout... The murmurs of the still furious mob as they pushed and made way for someone…Boots strode towards her purposefully. She buried her face in her hands as she tried to will her life away. She did not want to live in this idyllic land when her sons were condemned to exile in the dark hinterlands. 

×××

 

She stirred uneasily. Pain jolted her limbs when she tried to move. Warm hands eased her down onto the rich quilt. 

Consciousness surfaced slowly. She had been making a flute. Darkness, her husband’s proud, wrathful voice, Manwë’s caution… There had been blood everywhere. Blood more crimson than her son’s hair…her sons.

She opened her eyes panicked. Perhaps it had been a nightmare. Yes, she promised herself, it was a nightmare caused by overwork. There were dark curtains in the chamber. They soothed her nerves. She sighed in relief. If only the pounding in her head would stop…

“Try not to move your head,” a familiar voice advised concernedly.

She jerked her head towards the voice and immediately winced ruefully as her head complained. Familiar blue eyes were watching her. 

“So it was no nightmare,” she said brokenly.

He shook his head as he sat primly on the edge of the bed. She wondered why he was so prudish. Then she stopped wondering. The fate of her sons purged all other thoughts from her heart. 

“I must see Manwë,” she said hoarsely. She had to beg the Valar and bring her sons back.

“I am afraid that is not possible,” Eönwë shook his head again.

“I must,” she said, her jaw set in grim determination.

“Lord Manwë is taking counsel with the rest of the Valar. You will not be granted an audience,” he explained with remarkable patience before changing the subject. “Would you like some water?”

“No,” she said plainly. “I need to see Manwë. My sons-”

“Nerdanel,” he sighed. “Fëanáro might be persuaded. I am sure that Manwë will bring them back. There will be judgment here. But I swear that Manwë will not let our brightest flame perish in the hinterlands.”

She glared at him. He smiled sincerely before reaching across to squeeze the thumb of her left hand, the only finger that remained uninjured.

“Thank you for saving me.”

“I am grateful that I could. They were furious. I fear that they might have lynched you to death,” Eönwë twirled a finger about an end of the quilt. “I confess that my heart paused when I realized who it was.”

“Unexpected?” She tried her best to feign interest in the conversation.

“Yes, a woman of your wisdom should have known better than to agitate their mourning.” 

“Nothing does a mother value more than the blood of her blood.” She met his worried gaze frostily. “You would not understand it.”

“I cannot pretend that I understand it completely. But I see your very visible distress.”

She sighed again and said in a tone of finality, “Thank you.”

“I promised your sons that I would,” he said gently. 

She pretended not to hear. Her sons…

×××

 

“Hail Arafinwë Noldoran!” the heralds called out loudly as Manwë crowned the penitent prince who had returned to seek the forgiveness of the Valar.

Nerdanel was clad in muted brown as she stood beside her father. They were assigned places of honour for she was yet the wife of Fëanor. Her calm face did nothing to betray the turmoil that wracked her from within. Only Finarfin had returned. Fingolfin and Fëanor had chosen to go on. There were whispered tales of how Fëanor’s madness had burnt the ships they had plundered from the Teleri. Nerdanel feared for her sons. They would not leave his side, she knew. 

“Lord Mahtan, do you intend to stay in Tirion?” Eönwë was asking her father politely. 

“I cannot,” Mahtan confessed simply. “I will move to the lands of Aule. My daughter shall accompany me.”

“I shall not.” Nerdanel was firm as she met her father’s baffled gaze. “I intend to stay in Tirion.”

“In Tirion?” Eönwë asked surprised. “But-”

“I shall not leave Tirion. If Lord Arafinwë wills, I shall assist him in any way I can.” 

“Nerdanel!” Mahtan said scandalized as the nobles surrounding them began to whisper about her declaration. “You must realize that…that Fëanáro’s actions shall not be without consequences and that these repercussions might affect you, my daughter.”

“I know.” She met his gaze calmly. “I am prepared to face whatever ensues as a result of Fëanáro’s actions. I vowed to do that in my marriage oath many years ago. Though I do not consider myself yet married to him, I would still do it for his sake…and for the sake of my sons.”

“Lady Nerdanel,” Manwë said quietly as he overheard the conversation, “it would be in your best interest if you were to accompany your father.”

“I prefer to stay in Tirion, Milord.”

“Nothing you do can bring back the lives of those poor souls slain by your husband and sons. Nothing you do can be answer enough to satisfy the questions of children who shall grow up without knowing their fathers. And nothing you do shall ever be an assurance to the Noldor who followed your husband into the jaws of fate only to be betrayed by him.”

“Be they kinslayers or outlaws, they remain my blood and heart, Lord Manwë. A mother is bound to her children. A woman is bound to one she loves. I cannot forsake my sons. I cannot forsake Fëanáro.”

“Fëanáro and you are no longer married,” Manwë said gently. “His madness is not your burden.”

“I loved him once.” She rose from her seat and faced Manwë. “Even if I had no love for him, I love my sons. They love their father. His madness is indeed my burden.”

“What can you do?”

“I will beg you. I will do whatever penance you ask. I will lay down my life as Míriel Serindë did. I will leave Araman and strive to bring them back to your judgment. Spare them and I would do anything you wish.”

“Daughter!” Mahtan said aghast as her proud features shone in grieving determination.

She met Manwë’s appraising gaze trying not to betray the fear that rose in her. He nodded simply before moving away. 

“Lord Mahtan.” Eönwë cleared his throat. “Your daughter is an extraordinary woman.”

Nerdanel did not join the conversation. She was trying to catch Finarfin’s eye. The newly crowned King was pale and drained of joy. He offered her a wan smile when she approached him. She noticed that the throne in the chamber was not the throne that Finwë had ruled from.

“It was a mistake,” Finarfin said in a low voice.

“I beg you pardon?” she asked bewildered.

“That I left them to their madness. I should have brought them back or gone ahead with them. Our house shouldn’t have fallen apart.”

“If I had had a choice, I would have gone with my sons,” she said simply.

“Then you are braver than I. I will need your support to salvage my house. Earwen does not forgive my betrayal of her kin. My mother will not recover from her grief. You and I are all that remains of Noldorin royalty.”

“I will stay,” she said quietly. “Their actions may be mended to some extent by our toils.”

“Their actions were born of love. The love Fëanáro had for his father spurred him to take the oath. The love Nolofinwë bore Fëanáro sealed his fate. Our sons and daughters would never have chosen less bravely. I was the coward.”

“Your wisdom did not desert you even while your brothers were fiery in their madness. Since when has wisdom become cowardice?”

“If the cost is forsaking one’s kin, then wisdom is indeed cowardice given another name.”

×××

 

She walked slowly towards the magnificent palace. Here she had been married, here her sons had been born, here she had spent her happiest times. Finarfin stood in the courtyard, his face weary as he viewed the skies. The moon shone down on the sculpture of Finwë that had been erected in the square. Nerdanel waited until Finarfin had left before walking to the statue.

“It is magnificently done.” Eönwë’s voice was sincere.

She turned to face him. He stood encased in the moonlight, his wise features pensive as he regarded her. He was staying as a guest at the palace. His errand consisted of ensuring that Finarfin’s rule took root smoothly without exciting another rebellion of the Noldor.

“Fëanáro had started the work a few years ago. I thought I might complete it,” she said quietly. “But the differences in our skill and methods are very visible to the trained eye.”

“I confess that my eyes are untrained. But I am usually able to recognize beauty when it is before me.”

“Thank you,” she smiled. “You do flatter my skills more than they warrant.”

“I have something of yours.” He cleared his throat uneasily before continuing, “It was forgotten in the events of that day.”

She tilted her head in curiosity. He stepped forward and drew out a familiar flute from the depths of his rich tunic. Her heart constricted in pain. She averted her eyes as she tried to hold on to her composure.

“I fear that you have corrupted me,” he continued lightly. The mischief in his voice made her turn to regard him warily. “You see,” he said blithely, “I find that I cannot part with this unless you offer me unconventional payment.”

“Unconventional payment?” she repeated curiously.

“Indeed.” He stepped forward so that they were but inches away from each other. “Would it be terribly impertinent if I were to ask a kiss as barter?”

A warm tendril of mirth rose in her. The hollow left behind by her family seemed less oppressive at the moment. Her smile stopped being a pretense as he stood before her, infinitely worried and yet, hopeful.

“It would be impertinent indeed,” she murmured. “But if you can shed your conventions, I can endeavour to overlook the impertinence.”

“So be it!” he declared with an extravagant flourish of his hands. 

She laughed at the gesture before rising tip-toed and pressing her lips to his cheek. His fingers brushed hers as they deposited the roughly hewn, unfinished flute into her hands. 

×××

 

The Eagles of Manwë circled overhead as Fingolfin’s host made the shores of Middle-Earth. But as the host of Fingolfin marched into Mithrim the Sun rose flaming in the West; and Fingolfin unfurled his blue and silver banners, and blew his horns, and flowers sprang beneath his marching feet, and the ages of the stars were ended. At the uprising of the great light the servants of Morgoth fled into Angband, and Fingolfin passed unopposed while his foes hid beneath the earth. Then the Elves smote upon the gates of Angband, and the challenge of their trumpets shook the towers of Thangorodrim; and Maedhros heard them amid his torment and cried aloud, but his voice was lost in the echoes of the stone.

 

×××

 

She woke screaming in terror at the nightmare she had seen in her sleep. Her hands sought of their own accord the reassurance of a warm body beside her. They clenched convulsively on the quilt when she realized that Fëanor was dead. And Maedhros…she rose to her feet and walked outside. She did not wish to be alone. She did not wish to think more upon what she had seen. 

Eönwë was standing in the square below her balcony. He seemed to be lost in his own thoughts as he fiddled with a goblet of wine. Nerdanel sighed before settling herself in an alcove overlooking the square. The sound of his steady breathing was more calming than anything else could have been, she felt. Wearily, she closed her eyes and leant back.

×××

Are you listening to me?” 

The frustrated tones made Eönwë meet the questioner’s frustrated gaze. Ingwë was by nature mild and soft-spoken. But the circumstances under which the meeting had been convened had no doubt ruffled even his famed calm.

“Concord-” Eönwë began.

Ingwë waved his hand impatiently before saying, “Olwë’s people will not be inclined to listen to Arafinwë’s explanations. He’s not fit to be king, if I may speak frankly. I wish Nolofinwë had been the one who returned in penance. He was a diplomat.”

“He is a diplomat,” Eönwë felt obliged to correct his companion.

“Not for long. Their chance of survival in that wild land to the east is next to nothing. The fools, to think that they could live without the protection of the Valar!” 

Eönwë frowned saying, “Noldor, we cannot underestimate them. I would not be very surprised if they were to build realms and flourish in Middle-Earth.”

“With the doom they have brought down upon themselves hanging like a sword above their heads?” Ingwë queried sarcastically.

“Ingwë,” Eönwë said, “I asked you merely to call the king of Alqualondë for the meet. You need not worry yourself about the brawls that may ensue, old friend.”

“Your days in Tirion have wrought a remarkable change on you. If I read you right, you look forward to these brawls that might destroy my best furniture.”

Eönwë chuckled and patted his friend’s shoulder before moving to the balcony. He could see the dark trails of cooking smoke rising from the chimneys of the houses that abutted on the palace street. He inhaled deeply. He could smell boiling vegetables, roast chicken and even truffles. But no wild game being cooked over a bonfire…

“The Noldor have left, milord. They were the hunters. Wild game will no more sully the air of Valinor.” 

He turned to face her. “You are early,” he remarked as he bowed and reached for her hand.

She nodded grimly before extending her hand and suffering his kiss on her fingers. That she did not refuse the gesture worried him. Her eyes held none of the arrogance that had been their wealth when he had first seen her. 

“How did you read my mind?” he asked. “That I had been thinking of roast game.”

A faint smile graced her lips but a moment before it was chased away resolutely by listlessness. “Fëanáro used to ask me the same. Perhaps it is because men are so easily understood that I can discern their thoughts.”

“That is an arrogant statement and slights the race of men,” he said mildly. 

“Perhaps I should modify it then.” The smile emerged again and stayed put this time. He watched fascinated as mirth lightened her brown eyes. 

“How would you modify it?” he asked curiously.

“That it is easier to discern the thoughts of men I understand,” she offered, a teasing twinkle playing mischievously in her eyes.

Before he could even attempt deciphering her words, the gong rang calling them to the meet. He offered her a rueful smile. She raised her eyebrows. He did not attempt to offer her his hand. 

“Come along?” he asked instead.

A low laugh escaped her and she said, “Your manners are worsening by virtue of your continued acquaintance with me.”

“Perhaps I am letting my manners slip because I begin to understand you, if I may flatter myself so,” he teased her.

He could grow used to hearing the rich laughter that resounded in the corridors, he thought distractedly as they walked to the large council chamber.

Finarfin was standing outside the large doors, an expression of concern on his fair features. When he saw them, he smiled in relief. 

“I had been wondering where you had disappeared to,” he told Nerdanel as he offered her his hand. 

She shot Eönwë a helpless glance before accepting Finarfin’s hand and saying easily, “I chanced to meet Lord Eönwë.”

“Hmm…” Finarfin threw Eönwë a suspicious glance before whispering, “Eärwen represents the Teleri, Nerdanel. She has come in their king’s stead.”

“Did you speak with her?” Nerdanel asked even as Eönwë stared in disbelief.

“No,” Finarfin murmured, “she is extremely angry.”

×××

 

“We have convened this meet to discuss the future, the future of our clans and the future of Valinor.”

Ingwë’s sonorous tones began the council. Eönwë was across Ingwë and watched the convened people. Eärwen was seated next to him, her features cold and furious. Next to her, to Ingwë’s right, sat Indis, the veil of mourning yet obscuring her features. To Eönwë’s right sat Nerdanel and beside her was seated Finarfin.

“We cannot move on without reaching some kind of closure about the past, my king,” Indis said heavily. “Much that has happened will have long lasting consequences.”

“The Queen Mother of the Noldor is right,” Eärwen murmured, her blue eyes flashing in suppressed sorrow.

“Dredging the past will not help us heal,” Ingwë remonstrated softly. “I understand the need for closure. But unless we were possessed of the art to revert time, it will not help.”

“What would you have of us?” Eärwen asked.

“Acceptance of Arafinwë, who is now king in Tirion,” Eönwë said. “We cannot afford further strife.”

“He has killed as has any other cursed Noldo who did not return!” Eärwen hissed in anger. “The Teleri will not hold hands with one whose fingers are stained by our blood!”

Finarfin’s expression betrayed not the least ounce of pain. But Eönwë could see the turmoil in his blue eyes. His fingers were shaking ever so slightly where they rested on the fine mahogany table. Something stirred in Eönwë when a woman’s fingers hovered above Finarfin’s hand in a silent gesture of comfort. He had seen those fingers crafting a flute. He raised his eyes to Nerdanel. She seemed as if she were wrought of marble; lifeless, serene and immeasurably proud. Was the pride innate or was it a legacy of her husband?

“The past must be buried,” Ingwë began in a tone that betrayed his hopelessness that the past could ever be buried.

“No,” Eärwen leant forward, passionate hatred on her features. “Vultures in Valinor, Ingwë. They gouged out the eyes of my kin before we could bury or cremate the corpses. Mass burials, half-burnt carcasses because the wood was damp, unidentified bodies, unidentifiable bodies, maimed sailors who shall never sail again, widows, orphans and…and dead children”, tears rose in her eyes as her voice broke on the last words. She took a deep breath before saying quietly, “The past cannot be buried! My people have suffered.”

Silence fell shroud-like in the hall. Ingwë buried his head in his palms and sighed. Finarfin had leant back in his chair, his eyes shining in misery and pain. Eärwen was silently crying, her tears falling onto the polished surface of the wood like stars upon the sand. Indis’s hands had reached across the table to clasp her son’s wrist. Eönwë shifted in his seat uncomfortably. Even Nerdanel seemed shaken. 

“I went there, for my father’s funeral,” Eärwen began in a softer voice. “I saw him on the bier, clad in his royal raiment, the crown still on his noble head. That was where the resemblance ended between the corpse and the vibrant soul that had been my father…gruesomely murdered, he had been. His head hung attached to his body by but a muscle. They had near beheaded him…and ran their sword through him even after his death.”

“Eru!” Ingwë whispered in horror as she finished her tale.

Eönwë tried to prevent the queasy feeling in his guts that made him feel sick. 

“He was such a good swordsman that the assailant might have had a hard struggle. Perhaps the opponent had been relatively inexperienced with the sword,” Nerdanel leant forward and spoke in a quiet tone.

Eönwë waited for Eärwen’s outburst. But to his surprise, she said brokenly, “My father was an excellent swordsman. He did not practice often, for he deemed it unnecessary. But I want to know who did it. I need to know.”

“It was carnage and madness,” Eönwë said in his kindest voice. “For all we know, it might have been one of your own people.”

“In his grasp was found clutched a silver-coloured piece of cloth,” she leveled her stare at her husband. Finarfin had paled and was now breathing harshly. “Do you deny it?”

Indis inhaled sharply and a cry escaped her. Ingwë too had shock writ on his handsome features as he stared at Finarfin. 

Eönwë was frightened by this revelation. The Eldar would never be united if Finarfin had indeed killed his own father-by-law in cold blood. Why had Manwë not alerted Eönwë to this issue before sending him to the council?

“I did not, I swear it!” Finarfin rasped, his voice breaking on each syllable.

The silence that resounded in the chamber after his fervent declaration held but one emotion; disbelief.

“I did not,” he said again, though his weary words seemed to be spoken in the complete realization that they would not be believed.

“He did not.”

Eönwë rose to his feet in surprised reverence as Varda walked into the chamber. She was clad in a dazzling white gown that blinded him for a long moment. Painfully beautiful, he had always thought of her. 

“Lady Varda,” Ingwë rose to offer a bow of obeisance and then stood aside to let her have his seat. But she waved him back into the chair and advanced to stand beside him, her features set in pensive determination.

“Will my words be enough to convince you, Eärwen of Alqualondë?” she asked softly.

Eärwen did not speak immediately, disbelief and pain warring on her features. Finally she nodded and said, “I need to know who it was.”

“I swear it was not Arafinwë. You must not ask me more. It is in your best interests to not know,” Varda said kindly.

“No,” Finarfin said with hesitant determination. “The Lady Eärwen was right. We need closure, all of us. Let there be no more secrets, at least amongst those who remain. I am willing to submit myself to any penance. I deserve all that and more, for being a kinslayer and then for being a coward who deserted his family. But those of Alqualondë have suffered the most. They need to know who left them kingless.”

Varda shook her head sadly before averting her gaze and murmuring softly, “I cannot. It will merely bring more grief upon all of us.”

Nerdanel rose to her feet and faced Varda. Fire shone in her brown eyes as she said, “My lady Varda, you claim that this secret will bring further misery. Pray, is it worse than knowing that your husband was burnt into oblivion by a balrog? Is it so unbearable than being helpless while your first-born son is tortured to death by Morgoth? For all I know, craven creatures might have eaten him alive. Vultures might have feasted upon his emaciated body and left him torn and bleeding. Is knowing the identity of this assailant worse than knowing madness and grief consume my sons across the sea?”

Varda flinched and stepped backwards as if to bring a greater distance between Nerdanel and her. Each word that Nerdanel had spoken burnt Eönwë. Her grief had become his grief. Her fears had become his fears. He remembered the sons who had left her in his care. He remembered their wistful parting. They did not deserve this.

“Spare them.” He was not aware that the words had left his lips.

But Varda’s face convulsed in a slew of emotions as he spoke. It was then that he realized he had spoken.

Nerdanel shook her head and said crisply, “I don’t seek pardon or amnesty for my sons. I merely tell you that one more grief would be but another drop in the sea that is already our lot. Tell us, then. Who killed Olwë of Alqualondë?”

Varda nodded in acceptance and cleared her throat. Her fingers came to curl around the head of Ingwë’s chair seeking reassurance and strength. 

“It was madness and blood. The Teleri were not as inexperienced with the swords as they were thought to be. They were equally enflamed. Olwë slew many. So aggrieved was he by the betrayal of those he had counted friends that he no longer cared to distinguish between kin and foe. Arafinwë was fighting someone when Olwë made to run him through with the sword from behind. Someone saw that and rushed to Arafinwë’s rescue. Someone who was very inexperienced with the sword…Perhaps it was luck, perhaps it was fate, perhaps it was in the music of the Ainur, Olwë fell. His assailant barely had the strength to pull back the sword from the corpse.”

“Who was it?” Ingwë asked hoarsely.

Varda sighed and clasped her fingers together. The depth of turmoil in her eyes frightened Eönwë for he had never seen her so moved in the long years he had served as herald. The floor length curtains billowed as a gust of wind played with them. Rays of the setting sun rushed into the chamber reminding Eönwë of an invading army storming a besieged fort. Varda seemed an ethereal apparition of sunlight and swirling golden hair, the skirts of her gown spinning about her frame. The wind died out as abruptly as it had started. The chamber was once again silent with the weight of anticipation. Varda's voice shook as unsteadily as the guttering torches in the hall as she spoke but one word.

“Artanis.”

×××

 

References:

This is one of the crucial chapters. Several threads from Galadriel’s life in The Song of Sunset are brought together here. The following lines are from The Journal of Maglor, Chapter Nine.

* * *

“I still think that it would be better were we to simply let them dictate the terms of trade,” Finarfin was saying. “It would constitute goodwill on our part.”

Nerdanel shook her head and gently pushed him away from the clay model she had been working on. His nose wrinkled in disgust when he noticed the clay. 

“Clay is a malleable medium, Arafinwë,” she remarked in amusement as Finarfin stepped away from the vicinity.

“I’d rather you worked with wood or marble or metal or…anything that is not mud!” he exclaimed in exasperation as he threw a rag in her direction. “Wipe your hands and come with me. I am confused about that trade agreement. We need to send it as soon as we can.”

“Eärwen will understand that delays are inevitable in any court and council,” she said. “You needn’t fret so.”

“Hmm...But we cannot afford further mistakes on our side, can we? The trust level is at rock-bottom.”

“Do you seriously think that mistakes lie only on our side?” Nerdanel snapped as she cleaned her hands. “The Valar are accountable equally. They could have stopped us any time they wished.”

“Nerdanel,” Finarfin sighed, “do you really think that Fëanáro could have been stopped?”

“He was the only one who could not have been stopped. The Valar could have slain him and spared the rest.” Nerdanel’s voice did not falter. 

“Nerdanel!” 

“I mean it!” She wanted to wring him by the arms and make him understand. “I will lose my sons because of the Valar’s failure to act! I will lose them to death, madness and grief. I would have killed Fëanáro myself had I known this would ensue.”

“Maitimo is-”, Finarfin began quietly, sadness haloing him.

“He is saved, but at what cost? You may conceal the tidings from me, seeking to spare me. But think you that I know nothing? It is my blood that runs in my sons. I am bound to them. Arafinwë! I cannot--” she stopped speaking and stormed out of the chamber, leaving a helpless Finarfin in her wake. 

He did not deserve to bear the brunt of her emotions, she decided forlornly, not when he was equally torn as she was. She did not blame him at all. She cursed under her breath. She should have tried to drown herself in work. That was the easiest way to suppress her worries. 

“Is the trade agreement ready?” 

She whirled around to face the questioner and said waspishly, “No, the next time you see Manwe, tell him that I hate him.”

“I beg your pardon!” Eönwë spluttered in bafflement. “Whatever did you just say?”

“Just tell him that I will never forgive him for what he has done to my family! The cold-hearted, calculating, fickle, cowardly-”

“Cease! Cease!” Eönwë hastily intervened before she could complete her litany. “You veer rather close to blasphemy, Nerdanel.”

“And give me a single reason why I should still bring offerings to Tanequetil?” she barked. “What didn’t I lose by worshipping them?”

He did not reply to that, though a wealth of emotions shone in his eyes. Instead, he said, “I was going to beg a boon of you.”

“If you command that I cease blasphemy-”, she began irritably.

“It is not wise to continue that,” he remarked. “But I will never presume to command you.”

She smiled, pleasantly surprised by his unexpected statement. 

“What did you want to ask?” she enquired.

He began walking towards the gardens. Taking the cue, she fell in step beside him. It was one of those things she liked the most about him, that he never sought to lead her or order her about unlike the other men did. He was so like Feanor in that aspect, she was forcibly reminded…though, just in that aspect.

“I wish to build a house in Tirion,” he spoke thoughtfully. “Since my errand will not be over in the foreseeable future, I thought I should move into my own quarters.”

“Do you find the guest chambers in the palace lacking?” she asked concernedly. “If there is anything amiss, Arafinwë or I can immediately correct it.”

“No!” he assured her hastily. “It is merely that I wish to keep a larger household. I wouldn’t want to discomfit Arafinwë by that.”

“It will be our pleasure to serve you, Lord Eönwë,” she said, perturbed. “Arafinwë will be pleased to arrange for a wing within the palace for you. As you know, the mansion stands relatively empty.”

Empty…empty of laughter, song, mischief, quarrels and loving families. She shuddered as she was swept into the past; her younger sons and nephews would play hide-and-seek in the large gardens. Maedhros and Finrod had wooed maidens in the same courtyard where she stood with Eönwë now.

“Let me see if frankness works better,” Eönwë was saying. “I need a house. While both Arafinwë and you are excellent hosts, I simply prefer not to stay in the palace.”

A grudging smile escaped her and she said, “Frankness works, my lord. I don’t know if there are houses available in the vicinity though.”

“Oh!” he said airily. “I wish to build a new house.”

“Build?” she asked bewildered. “But why would you want to build a new one when we can easily procure one for you?”

“I wish to build in the outskirts of the city, away from the sounds and the crowds.”

“I did not know that you had the soul of a naturalist.” She raised her eyebrows in disbelief.

“I assure you, there is much about me that you are yet to learn.” His eyes twinkled in merriment as he spoke. “The question is, will you design my house? Will you be my architect?”

She stopped walking and stared at him in plain astonishment before saying quietly, “I am flattered, if you are in earnest about all this. But I am merely a sculptress. I don’t design anything new.”

“I beg leave to differ,” he interjected. “You visualize things. You don’t know music. Yet you crafted a flute that yields music.”

“Visualizing a flute is not on the same scale as visualizing a house, my lord,” she retorted. “It seems an asinine proposal, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

He did not seem offended. For a few moments, they walked quietly, lost in their own thoughts. Then she asked again, “Why did you propose this?”

“Because I was in earnest.” He shrugged.

“Was?” she clarified.

“Yes, since you refuse me.” He plucked off a leaf from the bush that marked the boundary of the path and carefully teased it apart along the middle. 

“If you are in earnest, I can readily recommend half-a-dozen proven architects.” She offered quietly. “I am sorry if I did offend you by my words. The proposal merely took me unawares.”

“I can understand.” He nodded his head sagely. “But I will not have any other architect for my house.”

“I am not an architect,” she said irritably.

“What shall I say to move you?” Eönwë stopped walking and faced her, his expression grim and determined.

“The truth behind the flattery, of course.” She raised an eyebrow questioningly.

He sighed before saying with a reckless shrug, “If you are occupied with this task, you will not always brood on the rest. You will blaspheme less. It is to our mutual benefit, my proposal.”

“Mutual benefit?” she asked quietly. “What is your prize in this?”

“The house,” he laughed. “Isn’t the answer obvious?”

She did not reply. But when his hand tentatively brushed her arm, she looked up into those sincere, warm eyes. A strange, fiery flutter unsettled her from within for the barest of moments before she damped it firmly. 

“I should return, Arafinwë might be searching for me,” she said with as much nonchalance as she could muster then. 

“Shall I take that as an assent to my proposal?” 

She turned to face him in astonishment, her feet turning suddenly into clay. He looked at her innocently, his hopeful features doing nothing to still the unquiet within her.

“The proposal to build you a house?”

He frowned, but nodded saying, “Indeed, what else?”

Relief swallowed her whole. The last thing she wanted at the moment was a naïve Maia trying to persuade her away from her convictions. But then, she reflected morosely, there were other things that the Maia could have been doing instead of trying to keep her out of trouble. She had always wanted to design a house, if she admitted the truth to herself. With Feanor, she had never taken the initiative. It would have been superfluous. Who would design a house when their husband was the legendary Feanor himself?

“That you are thinking so deeply upon it makes me hopeful,” Eönwë remarked as they began the walk back to the palace.

“I might be thinking of a polite way to reject the plan too,” she warned him. He considered the answer for all of a moment before shaking his head firmly.

“Why?” she asked in startled amusement at his conviction.

“I know you well enough to realize that if you had not wanted to take up my proposal, you would have told me so plainly.”

“I don’t accept the proposal. This is my last word on this,” she said briskly. “I must return now.”

×××

 

Nights had been hard ever since Alqualondë. She would walk on the terrace before her chambers, willing herself to stay away from the paths of dreams. Often, she would see Finarfin wandering aimlessly in the gardens below her, his features troubled and distant. Perhaps they would never step away from the shadow of the past.

 

An eagle hovered over the clear lake that shone as crystal. Tentative whispers became raucous shouting as sharp eyes recognized the upright form seated upon the eagle’s back. Then the voices died out abruptly. Their prince was not alone.

Turgon and Finrod rushed to the forefront of the crowd the great eagle landed neatly by the lakeside. Fingon’s fair face was drawn in an alien emotion as he leapt off the eagle and gently transferred something that looked like a pile of bones to his brother.

“Don’t touch me.” A hoarse croak in broken Quenya rose from the bundle of limp bones that Turgon held.

Turgon tried to ignore the words and continued into the fortress. 

“DON’T!” Now it was a bare, bitter order.

Fingon rubbed his eyes wearily before placing a soothing hand on Turgon’s burden and whispering, “Please, Maitimo…We must get you to a healer.”

“Maitimo indeed!” Maedhros sneered as he raised his bloodied stump of a maimed arm to Fingon’s left cheek. To Fingon’s credit, he did not shudder, though unease crossed his face.

Fingolfin moved forward and knelt before his beloved nephew. Caring not the least for the soiled condition Maedhros was in, Fingolfin drew him to his chest and folded his arms about the skeletal form. He pressed a chaste kiss to each of his nephew’s grimy cheeks and cupped the sharp chin. Tortured grey eyes met his gaze hesitantly. Those eyes held the same vulnerable trust that had shone in them when Fingolfin had held his eldest nephew as a newborn babe in his arms. Maedhros had always trusted his uncle, even when he had not trusted his own parents or siblings or cousins.

Maedhros sighed as Fingolfin held him tightly, soothing the naked back riddled with scabs and welts. It must have been painful, but he seemed to have lost the ability to feel pain. 

“Welcome home, Russandol,”Fingolfin whispered.

Tears fell from Fingolfin’s eyes onto his nephew’s face, determined to cleanse the grimy cheeks by the rivulets they formed. 

“Nolofinwë.” Maedhros let go of his tenuous control on consciousness as he realized that he was once more ensconced in the safest shelter he had known in life; his uncle’s embrace.

 

 

“DAMN YOU, Fëanáro! DAMN YOU, MANWE! DAMN YOU BOTH TO HELL!” Nerdanel shouted as she wiped the sweat off her head. 

She retched again and brought her hands to wrap around her waist, shivering as the still vivid images of her dream assailed her thoughts.

She straightened herself, catching a glimpse of her pale, ghostly reflection in the mirror as she did so. A ghost, which is all that was truly left in her body; a ghost dying slowly as she saw visions of her sons’ grief…

Only death would rescue her sons. Would she watch them die? Irmo certainly seemed to like tormenting her with these dreams. Abruptly, everything became clear. She knew what she had to do. She swung her legs off the bed and rose to stand. For a moment, the world spun about her before she took a deep steadying breath. Quietly, she opened the door and walked into the deserted corridor. A shaft of light to her right told her that Finarfin too was in the middle of a sleepless night. 

Taking care to be silent, she made her way to her work chamber. The door complained with a soft creak as she pushed it open. She frowned at it before stepping in and bolting it behind her. 

There, on her work table, awaited what she had sought. With a grim smile, she lit a candle and perched herself on a chair by the table. Her fingers moved to clasp the hilt of the small dagger that lay on the table. 

Resolution gave her the courage to place her left wrist exposed to the candlelight, palm upwards. With trembling fingers she traced the blue vein that lay beneath her smooth skin. 

Feanor had loved her for her courage.

“Curse you,” she said most sincerely before shutting her eyes and bringing down the dagger to slice the vein. 

And the wait began. She tried her utmost not to think of anything. It was proving impossible. Blood licked at her skin, warm and intimate. 

“I want to sing aloud,  
I want to dance about,  
I want to kiss you hard,  
I want to chance my heart!”

Her voice sounded high-pitched and frightened. She frowned. How did the next stanza start?

“NERDANEL!”

An overwrought voice interrupted her slow ponderings. She did not open her eyes. She could not afford to. The sight of blood did nothing to help her courage.

“Oh, you foolish, foolish woman!” 

Warm hands, warmer than the blood that pooled on her hand, pulled her to a hard chest. The next she knew, her posture had become horizontal. The sudden change of plane left her entirely disoriented. It had become more than she could bear; the dull pain, the warmth of the chest she was pressed against and the lightheadedness of blood loss. 

Feanor had returned? He liked to carry her to their bed from her work chamber. No, he was dead, she remembered. 

“You can’t fool me, Mandos.” Her voice was slurred. 

“Be quiet.” An admonishment coloured by worry. 

“I’ll be very noisy when I take up residence with you, Mandos!” She began laughing. She wouldn’t give him silence. She would sing and drive him to distraction. Might as well as begin now, she decided.

“I want to kiss you hard,  
I want to chance my heart!”

“What happened?” a voice she remembered well.

“Arafinwë?” she mumbled. “Did you cut your vein too?”

“Eru!” Finarfin exclaimed in horror. “What has she done?” 

xxx

 

She cracked open her eyelids to see two anxious faces seated beside her on the large bed. Finarfin’s blue eyes held sadness and understanding. But his companion’s steady gaze held only disappointment and anger.

Finarfin sighed in relief as her eyes widened in comprehension. He bent over to press a kiss to her clammy forehead before whispering, “Rest. We will speak later. I will get some wine for you.”

After a wary glance at her wrist, he rose to his feet and rushed out of the room, probably to summon aides.

“Fool,” Eönwë said coldly, his grey eyes still simmering in anger.

“You were the fool!” she retorted. “You had no right to break and enter my chambers.”

He roughly lifted her wrist and held it up for her inspection. She quailed at the blood and averted her gaze. She had never learnt to stomach the sight of blood. He snorted at her reaction.

“I hate you,” she whispered vehemently. “If not for you, I would have been free.”

“Not likely,” he smirked. “Your pathetic attempt did not harm your vein at all. This is what comes of blindfolded dagger practice.”

She did not reply.

“This is not an easier way out, Nerdanel. You should have known that,” he began his tirade. “This was cowardice.”

“Don’t be so damned righteous,” she cursed him. “My sons are dying there!”

It was his turn to fall silent. 

“I hate the Valar.” She decided to blame them. It was easy enough.

“Nerdanel-”

“I hate them.”

He sighed and nodded assent before saying, “That is fine. I’d rather have you blaspheme than attempting suicide.”

She felt her defiance drain from her core, leaving behind only regret. She hated the Valar, but it was not going to help her cause at all. Yet, what could she do? Her eyes were drawn to the clotting blood on her hand. 

“I thought you were drunk, at first,” Eönwë remarked conversationally.

She looked up in bewilderment. A smile quirked his lips as he nodded and said, “Indeed. You were singing about dances, kisses and hearts. I was certain that you were drunk. That is why I broke open the door.”

Inexplicable warmth gushed within her. It was not the dangerous warmth of blood. It was more soothing. She quelled the sensation firmly and remained silent.

“Where did you learn such a bawdy song from?” he asked.

“That is an intrusive question,” she said loftily, arranging her features into cold composure again.

“I believe I have earned the right to ask it. I saved your life, after all,” he grinned.

“No,” she retorted. “I was never in any danger of dying, so you said.”

“That’s a pity then. I liked the song.” He inched closer and brushed his fingers over her arm. The deep, grey gaze that regarded her made her feel uncomfortable, and yet secure.

“I could answer the question, if you wish,” she whispered. His fingers stayed on her arm, warm and steady. 

“I shall ask you again then,” he murmured, “once you are recovered from this little adventure.”

She cleared her throat and opted for a more frivolous tone. “Do you usually save suicidal women whenever you are in residence?”

“No,” he assured her seriously, “I have been fortunate enough never to see one before.”

“I’m sorry that I couldn’t spare you the sight,” she bristled and moved away from the warm fingers.

“No!” he sighed and reached across tentatively, his fingers hovering over her wrist. “I am glad that I came in when I did. But that does not make me any less upset over your actions. I had thought you braver.”

“It takes bravery to slice open a vein, something you realize only when you attempt it,” she said disdainfully.

“I will be content not to attempt it.”

“Yes, live a sheltered, happy, boring life as your masters’ dog.”

He flinched and his hand dropped to the silken sheets of the bed. She acutely felt the loss of his warmth. 

“Rebellion will not serve any purpose, Nerdanel,” he said calmly. But his nostrils were flared in emotion.

“You should have left me alone. Why must you always bumble into my life? You herald the worst events of my life; the oath, Alqualondë, the stoning and now this. You are an ill omen!”

“Nerdanel-”

“What are you trying to do?” 

His jaw squared in a determined set as he said, “You are out of line, Lady Nerdanel.”

“I don’t care, honestly.”

“You never do.”

“Then why would you bother?”

“Because,” he let out an explosive sigh that alarmed her, “I care.”

“Care?” she laughed, trying to mask her astonishment. The ridiculous, warm something rose in her again. She frowned and said blithely, “I don’t need your care.”

Something flickered in his grey gaze before he averted his eyes. “Of course, you don’t,” he accepted serenely. “Forgive me for having presumed otherwise.”

She was spared the effort of trying to answer him as Finarfin entered the chamber with goblets and a wine bottle.

“Are you recovered enough to talk?” Finarfin asked her, his expression inscrutable. He poured her a goblet of wine and pushed it into her hands.

She nodded warily.

“Good,” he said, “I don’t have anything to discuss. What you did is something I have been tempted to do many a night. All I wish to say is that the next time you try this, I would like to accompany you. I have lost as much as you have. Because I didn’t labour to bring my children into the world does not mean I love them less than you love your sons. The only thing that makes life bearable is your presence. We suffer in company. So if you are going to end your suffering, I would opt to join you.”

“Arafinwë!” Eönwë began, scandalized.

“I mean every word I say.” Finarfin’s voice was steely.

Nerdanel stared at her brother-in-law, seeing him in a whole new light. Then she took a shaky breath before saying quietly, “I will not take the coward’s way out. Nor shall you.”

He did not reply. With a last lingering resentful glare at her wrist, he left the chamber. Eönwë cleared his voice twice before giving up. He rose to his feet and said quietly, “I will take my leave too, then, and leave you to rest.”

“Yes,” she said distractedly.

He nodded and made his way to the door. She exhaled softly and leant back against the cushions, thinking of Finarfin’s wrath. There was fire in him too, a fire she had seldom seen before. 

“You are still clad in those bloodied clothes. Shall I send for a maid?” Eönwë was lingering at the door, faint concern marring his features.

“No.” She managed a smile. “I will cope. Thank you for all you have done, Eönwë. I am in your debt.”

“I will claim recompense, of course.” His eyes glittered in mischief.

“Indeed?” She wondered why her breath caught on seeing his plotting smile.

“Indeed,” he assured her. “You will be my architect.”

With a last twinkling smile, he slipped out and slid the door shut after him quietly. A grudging smile played on her lips as she wondered about his tenacity.

 

 

 

References:  
The Journal of Fingolfin - Chapter 8, describes the return of Fingon to Mithrim after saving his cousin. The relationship of Fingolfin and Maedhros forms a crucial base to the rest of the Journal interludes.

* * *

“Why is it a cube” he asked puzzled as he watched the elves working.

“Why is what a cube?” Nerdanel seemed impatient, her eyes flicking over her charts.

“The building blocks.” He gestured at the yellowish brown box-like units.

“Bricks, Eönwë, they are bricks. Don’t tell me that you hadn’t known that in all these years,” she said exasperatedly.

“No,” he sniffed in disdain. “The abodes in Valmar are made of stone and wood. It is the first time that I have seen people making bricks out of clay to build a house.”

“Fëanor and I had experimented with various building materials. Our researches showed that this is the easiest way to build a house. It is durable, weather-proof and efficient.”

“The process is dirty,” he complained. “The clothes get muddied.”

“You are being unreasonable,” she laughed. “Stay put there and don’t come down to the site.”

“Are you sure that the entire construction will not collapse?” he asked uncertainly. “I fear the bricks will dissolve into clay in the rain.”

“We baked them, Eönwë!” 

“You bake bricks like you bake cakes?” He was truly frightened by her explanation.

“You are not exactly the epitome of common sense, I see.” She winked. “I can assure you that the house will be perfectly safe in any kind of weather. Now, I shall be leaving for my father’s house this evening. There is a ceremony scheduled in relation to the new forge he has built. The work here will not be stalled though. I have appointed overseers.”

“Hmm…” he was still staring at the bricks. He cautiously traced a finger over them. “They seem sturdy enough.”

“Leave the bricks, they will be perfect. Is there anything else you wished to discuss before I leave? The wood will be coming from the city only during the next month. So we cannot call the carpenters before that.”

“No,” he said thoughtfully. “I suppose I cannot persuade you to use stone instead.”

“No, you cannot. I agreed to be the architect only if I had the supreme authority over the house plan.”

“Well, do what you wish.” He shrugged. “I must take my leave of you now.”

“Are you in a hurry?” 

A smile teased the corners of his mouth when he heard the disappointment in her voice.

“Indeed. I must hurry back and see to the trade agreements.”

“Eönwë!” she called after him breathlessly and he paused, tilting his head curiously as he watched her hurrying towards him, her eyes fixed on the construction site.

“Yes?” he asked.

“Would you mind accompanying me to my father’s house?” she blurted out, clearly uncomfortable. 

He smiled and felt bold enough to ask, “Would you like me to?”

“It is your choice, of course,” she dissimulated quickly. “I must return to supervising the labourers.”

She turned to leave, clouds of conflicting emotions chasing each other on her face. He took a step to follow her, then shook his head and determinedly returned to the palace where he proceeded to prepare for a journey. 

×××

 

When she emerged from the stables, leading her brown mare, her features arranged in pensive thought and her face haloed by strands of disobedient hair, the sun shone down upon her and Eönwë knew that he would have to admit all to her very soon. 

A companionable squeeze of his shoulder made him turn to face Finarfin, who said, “It is ripe. Tell her during the journey.”

“She loves your brother very deeply,” Eönwë said dubiously.

“And she shall, always. But she loves you as well. It is evident in every word and action that she lets slip past her guard,” Finarfin said quietly.

“I shall hope for the best,” Eönwë muttered.

“Ride after her,” Finarfin gave an encouraging smile. 

Spurred by that, Eönwë complied. He made sure that he did not come abreast with her until they had left the city. As the land gave away to lush green fields dotted by the occasional lonely tree, Eönwë called out to her. 

“What are you doing here?” she asked, trying to stay unruffled despite the grin that threatened to break her calm. 

“I would like to accompany you,” he said smiling.

She nodded and they rode together, their pace leisurely as they traded tales and anecdotes. Eönwë was reduced to tears of mirth as she narrated countless grand accidents that had happened in her life with Fëanor. It was one of those things he admired the most in her; she did not close her past and pretend as if it did not exist. 

“It is your turn!” she exclaimed as they gasped breathlessly after a merry bout of laughter that had ensued when she told a tale about Fëanor and a sandclock.

“I am afraid that my life has been appallingly mediocre and mundane when compared to yours,” Eönwë shook his head. “I can only share gossip about the Valar and you hate their race. I wouldn’t want to spoil your good temper.”

“Tell me the tale of Melkor and Varda,” she asked. “Finwë often claimed that there was some substance to those rumours.”

Eönwë did not reply, as he stared up at the skies. Dotted against the velvet spread, as radiant as Nerdanel’s eyes, were an infinite number of twinkling stars. A seductive breeze caressed him, just as it whispered its intent over the eagerly bowing sheaves of the cornfields they were passing by. 

“Did I ask something unwise?”

“No,” he turned to face her. “The rumours speak the truth. It is said that the stars shine down upon the east as a pledge of Varda’s love for Melkor. It is a sad tale, one of folly and regret.” 

“Love takes those paths so often,” Nerdanel murmured. “Varda’s plight reminded me often of Fëanor, you know. He was torn between us. I knew he would never choose. We could never ask that of him. So I had to leave. He did never understand my reasons, I fear.”

“Neither Manwë nor Melkor granted Varda that choice,” Eönwë said quietly. “It merely confirms my theory that there are many among the Eldar whose nobility outstrips even that of the Valar.”

“When did you start theorizing?” 

“It was a contagion,” he winked at her. “I caught it from you.”

She sniffed scornfully at his accusation.“I don’t theorize. I experiment, observe and improvise.” 

“I had yet another theory. I would need your aid to confirm it,” he spoke, meeting her eyes with tentative daring. 

She did not reply. But she halted her mount and slid off the horse. He did the same. Their eyes met and she turned away, walking towards the cornfields. He almost spoke, but instinct bade him swallow his words unvoiced and he followed her. Curious stalks probed him as he pushed his way through them, and they made way, swaying teasingly as they conspired with the whispering wind.

It was dark and he was not used to wandering in cornfields, trying to trail women. More than once, he lost his footing over fallen stalks and lurking stones. He was plainly relieved, yet immeasurably apprehensive, when warm fingers closed over his wrist and led him unerringly. 

The fields gave away to a small pond and Nerdanel turned to face Eönwë. There was no hesitation in her eyes and he sighed before doing what he had wanted to do for a very long time. His fingers mapped her features, and she leant in to his touch, her eyelids fluttering shut. He realized that her lips were too close and he brought his own to press against them, marveling as their soft warmth yielded to him. Her hands came to his shoulders, clenching and unclenching as his fingers dug into her ribs.

When her lips parted and a gust of hot air warmed his, he stiffened and pulled back. He had seen people kissing, their bodies as entwined as their tongues. But he did not know if he was capable of such abandon or if she would be accepting.

“Kiss me,” she whispered, bringing their lips together again. 

He complied eagerly, pulling her flush against him. His reason evaporated and with that left his restraint. His tongue breached her lips tentatively and was met by her own. A gasp escaped him as he lost himself to the primal sensations flooding him. Later, he would wonder how he had dared to buck against her so wantonly. The cavity between her legs provided an anchor for his rampant desire and he thrust blindly.

“Hush…” Her kiss became less passionate and more calming in nature, as did her embrace. He did not trust himself to reply, for deep groans were all that vocal chords seemed able to produce then. Her fingers stroked his arms soothingly, quieting the turmoil within him. Reason made an unwelcome appearance and he jumped back as he realized he was shamelessly rubbing against her.

Her hands refused to relinquish their grip on him and she tugged him down to the ground, so that they were kneeling before each other. She did not falter when her fingers strayed to the laces of his tunic and undid them. He wanted to flee, and yet he wanted more. The garment fell away from his torso and the wind flirted with his skin, startling him. He did not meet her eyes, for so torn was he between want and decorum. Her fingers continued their task, divesting him of his breeches and pulling them down till his knees. 

Before he could attempt to cover his desire, she did away with the distance between them and embraced him, her hands splayed reassuringly over his back. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply of the familiar scent of her hair the curls of which teased his torso. The wind brought strands to brush against the core of his desire and he flinched. She did not speak anything, for which he was grateful.

She turned and pulled her hair to the front, exposing the ties of her gown to him. His fingers fumbled when he undid them. With each inch of skin revealed, his desire flamed higher and he was panting as he finished the task. She lifted her arms and he pulled the garment up above her shoulders, leaving her naked to his gaze. 

In the midst of the cornfield, her skin glowing in the pale starlight, her hair being caressed by the mischievous wind, she was a pagan deity of fertility and reverence filled him as he reached out to touch her. 

She pulled him down with her, against the damp alluvial soil. Etched against the black earth, she lay gasping and straining to bring him closer. His pelvis sought out hers and found its rhythm despite its inexperience, one of those mysteries of a provident nature. Her hands guided him to the dark triangle of her womanhood, and he groaned as the wetness between her thighs teased him.

She lifted her legs and spread them, her eyes dark and expectant. He moved between her legs and his fingers traced circles on her inner thighs, delighting in the resultant shiver that wracked her. Her hands clutched fistfuls of the earth and he placed his own over them, even as he entered her with a drawn-out groan. She went still, a stifled cry passed in an exhalation of breath and her eyes clenched shut. He leant in, his frame shuddering under the assault of sensation.

“Are you-?”

His voice…he had never heard his voice sound so wild and uncivilized.

She shook her head and a warm tendril of her mind brushed his thoughts, whispering, “No more words.”

Before he could wonder about the link between their minds, she bucked her hips to take more of him within her, her thighs ploughing in effort. He threw his head back, his mind wiped clean by the pleasure, and drove into her welcoming heat. His vocabulary was limited to soft curses and helpless groans as they catapulted into the crescendo of passion. Her low moans and murmured whispers spurred him on, inflaming him so deeply that he knew he would never be the same again. She burned him, her mind holding his in thrall just as her body held him imprisoned within the heat. He wondered if the fire was the legacy of someone she had loved and let go. Then he stopped wondering as the fire consumed him.

He opened his eyes with effort and saw beads of sweat shining on her brow, passion colouring her features, entwined hands muddy as they dug into the ground beneath. Her lips parted in a scream as he surrendered himself into her heat. Blackness threatened to lure his consciousness, but her mind anchored him to her and he knew he was conquered as he collapsed upon her panting body.

Long they lay under the moonless night, the beauty of the black star-studded canopy lost on them. The wind sang them a soft lullaby, bringing their racing hearts to calm. And the sheaves of corn danced in approval as the entwined hands were brought to rest between the lovers, safely ensconced in the cleavage between sweating breasts. 

Dawn was breaking in the eastern skies when Eönwë roused himself from the dull languor of passion’s aftermath. Awe filled him as he looked down upon the woman beneath him. Her brown hair was disheveled and her unclad frame soiled by the earth. But she shone in the red rays of the dawn, and a smile lingered on the face he had kissed every inch of. He had never seen her so content and he knew immediately that he would die to see her thus for the rest of their lives. His fingers strayed respectfully to her womb, and he sighed as he felt the warm skin rising and falling as she breathed. 

Colours of stirring washed his mind and he looked up to see warm eyes regarding him with a mixture of concern, tension and something he did not yet recognize.

“I can feel you,” he whispered.

She raised her eyebrows in that infuriating, yet much loved manner and teased, “You are lying atop me. So you would.”

“I can feel your mind.”

She did not reply for a long moment. Then she asked quietly, “Do you regret it?”

“It is uncomfortable,” he admitted. She frowned and distance veiled her eyes. But he continued thoughtfully, “It is also the most marvelous sensation I have known.”

She laughed; a rich, husky sound that made him sigh in contentment. Then she said in a serious tone, “We are bonded, it would seem.”

“I like it,” he said simply. “Do you regret it?”

She shook her head before squeezing his fingers that still lay entwined with hers. He smiled and met her gaze, which held the same emotion that he could not give a name to. 

Dawn cast its splendour over them and he inhaled sharply as her frame gained a thousand hues, each chasing the other away playfully. His lungs constricted and he shuddered. Her mind opened to him, withholding nothing. In her eyes, he saw himself reflected and he understood the emotion he had sought so hard to place. 

“’Tis akin to love,” he whispered.

And she nodded, arching her head upwards to seek his lips. Their hearts beat in symphony, and the chords of Ainur’s music continued to play on, shaping and reshaping the worlds. 

 

×××FINIS×××

 

References:  
Canon: The Silmarillion.

The Song of Sunset:  
The Journal of Fingolfin.  
The Truth Behind The Stars.


End file.
